It's Your World And I'm Just In It
by Kristyn The Kid
Summary: It's Quinn's world and Rachel's just in it. Will Fabray feel the same way when Berry's dreams cause her to confess her true feelings? Faberry. Might be slightly AU. Might also be a two-shot. The choice is yours, fellow Faberries.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I'm not much of a Gleek but I have completely and totally fallen in love with Faberry and therefore had an uncontrollable need to try and write them. Chances are, this'll be a two or three-shot. There are so many other Faberry fics out there, ones written by people who watch Glee much more religiously than I do. But I foresee this being a rather interesting story and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. Future chapters depend entirely upon this fic's reception. If you like it, I'm happy to write more. If you don't, I'll go back to Callizona. Either way, here you go.**

**I apologize for any information/plot details that are non-canon (other than Faberry itself, of course). This fic is slightly AU just for the fact that it's easier for me to write if I have no restrictions. Other than that, just read and enjoy the Faberry goodness (:**

**Title inspired by the one and only Jason Aldean.**

**Enjoy (:  
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><p>As she stood outside Miss Pillsbury's office, Rachel Berry wondered if she remembered their first encounter. It wasn't all that long ago. Ms. P caught her trying to make herself throw up in the girl's room, admittedly one of Rachel's darker days. Of course, hardly knowing the eccentric, redheaded guidance counselor deterred Rachel from telling the immediate truth about her actions. She made it all up as she went along, saying she wanted to be thinner and prettier like the revered Quinn Fabray (which was only partially true). In all honestly, Rachel wanted to appear as if she was in love with Finn Hudson. At least that was understandable. At least that was normal. And while not a whole lot had changed since that embarrassing afternoon spent on the floor of the filthy school bathroom, enough had gone on to force Rachel to look for advice.<p>

Though she did initially come to Ms. P's door to ask for help, Rachel's pride with mixed a little bit of characteristic apprehension had her size-sevens glued to the floor outside her office. She simply stared at the neat nameplate that hung on the sturdy door before her, trying to gain the courage to raise a hand and knock. Around her, kids were scurrying to their classes, fumbling with their lockers and swapping homework answers. On any normal day, Rachel would be heading to calculus to deal with comments from Santana Lopez about how she was the only Jew to ever suck at math. But this wasn't a normal day.

The bell rang and the hallways cleared out, leaving Rachel alone in the corridor to further contemplate her decision to implore Ms. P's guidance. A few more minutes passed and Rachel got tired of her own self-doubt. She told herself something about how Barbara Streisand wouldn't be scared and knocked twice on Ms. P's door.

"Come on in," answered Miss Pillsbury. She had noticed the shadow on the other side of her door but was too caught up in one of her bouts of compulsive sanitation to really acknowledge how long the silhouette spent hovering. Rachel opened the door and peered inside before taking the full step forward and shutting it behind her. Finally, Emma looked up. "Oh, Rachel," she said, momentarily placing the cleaning supplies down on her desk. She gestured to the red chair before her. "Take a seat."

"Uh, okay." She sat, forced a polite smile, and placed her yellow messenger bag down on the floor beside her feet. Ms. P folded her hands on her desk and leaned forward, trying to concentrate on the troubled youngster sitting in front of her and not the millions upon millions of germs that were crawling all over her office supplies.

"How can I help you, Rachel?" Rachel cleared her throat and looked around the tidy office. She wanted desperately to spill her soul _someone_. Even Miss Pillsbury if that was what it would take to feel a little less crazy. Ms. P had made her feel better once before, even if she was completely misinformed and just spewed the standard-issue words of support.

"Well," she began, inhaling sharply, "I've…had a lot on my mind lately." Ms. P was eying the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser that was only a few inches from her right hand but tried desperately to give Rachel her full attention. "So much so that I'm having trouble eating and sleeping. I don't know what to do. And since you're the guidance counselor-" Rachel raised an eyebrow when she noticed Ms. P straining to keep eye-contact. "Is everything okay?"

"Yup," answered Emma quickly and loudly. Rachel leaned back. Noticing her mistake, Emma cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, Rachel. I'm just going to-" She picked up one of her pens and breathed on it, fogging up the clear plastic, before wiping it with her blouse. "Please, continue."

"Okay." Rachel dragged out her word as she observed Ms. P's actions. She'd heard that the guidance counselor was quirky. But now, seeing it firsthand, Rachel wondered if she should really be taking advice from someone who was individually cleaning each Ticonderoga in her pencil cup with a Lysol wipe. "I was just saying that, lately, I've been feeling…overwhelmed. I can't even focus on glee club. I've had the same thing on my mind for months. Maybe longer. But until now, I just figured that it would pass. That I was going through a phase and that I'd feel better soon enough. But so far, it hasn't passed and I feel like I'm going crazy."

Emma knew the feeling. The 'I must be crazy' mentality. Most people would assume that the feeling was the result of her OCD but in reality, it was the result of Will Schuester, the curly-haired Spanish teacher with his sights set on Broadway. When Emma had first met Rachel, the teen questioned if she'd ever loved someone so much that it made her cry. That someone was the glee club's commander-in-chief, though she'd never admit it to anyone, including herself. The insanity that was to follow was unprecedented, and this was coming from the woman who disinfected the outside of liquid soap containers in her own bathroom.

"Well, Rachel," began the germaphobic counselor, still scrubbing away at the invisible enemies that were invading her personal space, "I think we all go through something similar at one point or another. Everyone has to experience some kind of hardship. But, on the bright side, if you take a step back and try to see things with a bit of perspective, almost any problem can be easily solved."

"I don't know about that…" Rachel's voice trailed off as she thought about how she wished that were true. She wished her problem could be easily solved.

"Believe me, Rachel, every problem can be solved." Emma looked up from the pile of supplies on her desk and gave a warm smile. "Now, the last time we spoke, you were hung up on that tall boy. Finn. Is that what this is about?"

"Not exactly," said Rachel, biting the corner of her bottom lip.

"Well, whatever it is, I know that the two of us can fix it." Emma cocked her head to the side slightly, hoping to gain the teen's trust. "Together." She smiled again. "So tell me. What's on your mind? What is it that's causing you such emotional distress, Rachel?"

"Ah," Rachel sighed, releasing all the air from her chest. She smiled, nervous. "Lately, I've been having dreams about Quinn Fabray."


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't know from where this chapter came. I was about to go to bed and boom. I banged out twelve-hundred words in a half hour. Forgive any typos. My proofreader is already asleep and I, having had my sleep interrupted by this lovely story, am tired and want to post this and hit the hay. I did, however, quite enjoy writing this one so I hope you enjoy it as well.**

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><p>Halfway across the school, Quinn Fabray was making life hell for a student that the high school caste system had deemed inferior. She never understood it. The popularity, that was. As someone who actually managed to cling to some scraps of their faith throughout the soul-crushing experience that was public school, Quinn wondered how these animals were so quick to pass off judgment. At a very young age, she was taught that the only person who could judge was God Himself. That rule, though it seemed to be inscribed within the proverbial golden pages of her reluctant religion, didn't seem to apply within the confines of McKinley High.<p>

After bullying an innocent schoolboy to the point of near-tears (she knew it was wrong. She had nothing against the guy she was tormenting. He had been in her biology class sophomore year. He'd leant her a pen during the midterm. She actually _liked_ the kid. But, in recent years, Quinn had become a follower. And since other kids were teasing him, she was forced to join in. It was an obligatory, albeit unfathomably cruel, act of which she was deeply ashamed. But this was high school. Bully or be bullied), Quinn simply moved on with the pack. She stayed in her comfort zone, mostly only associating with the Cheerois, more specifically, Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce.

Perhaps they were bad influences. Santana was known for being a bit of a badass. In a weird way, Quinn sort of admired that. Santana had thick skin and what seemed like an unlimited supply of supreme confidence. Quinn envied that. As for Brittany, well, she would do anything, literally anything, that Santana asked of her. Quinn always had a creeping suspicion that there was something more going on between the smart-mouthed Latina and the empty-headed blonde than just a simple friendship but she knew better than to say anything about it. She simply observed the two whenever she could, made mental notes about every whispered inside joke and every sideways glance, and kept her well-glossed lips together in a respectful silence.

The way Quinn projected herself and the way she felt on the inside were two completely contrasting personas. She felt as if she was living a double life. By day, she was Quinn Fabray, the blonde, bitchy cheerleader that joined glee club to make everyone else miserable and spend time with her jock of a boyfriend. But after the final bell, after cheer practice and double dates with various members of McKinley's upper-class, once she was home and felt completely comfortable in the safety of her own room, she was able to settle in to the real Quinn. The Quinn who was much smarter than she appeared. The Quinn who could analyze and articulate the things she experienced over the course of a day. The Quinn who cried herself to sleep at night when she thought of all the awful things she said to the 'less popular' kids at school and the way her words must have made them feel. Once she was home and away from the pack, the real Quinn was set free.

But freedom was short-lived.

When her alarm blared at five-thirty, the alarm that told her it was time to straighten her hair and cake on the makeup, she put the real Quinn away, struggling to squeeze her true heart and soul back into the tight body she managed to create for herself. That was life, she figured. Life was all about being able to balance who you actually were with who you pretended to be in order to survive. As she fussed with her mascara, she wondered if this was what life was like for the other girls. Did Santana go through this constant internal conflict? Did Brittany? (Come to think of it, did Brittany ever go through emotional turmoil? She always seemed so…content.) Was there anyone who felt the same anguish she felt? Did Mercedes? Did Tina? Did Rachel Berry?

Rachel Berry.

Rachel Berry, Quinn thought. She gave a little laugh, lowering the tube of expensive lipstick that was in her hand so she could lean with her hands pressed firmly on the bathroom counter. She looked in the mirror, examining herself.

Rachel Berry.

There was somebody with real confidence. There was someone who was sure of herself. Thinking about it, Quinn realized that that was why she gave Rachel such a hard time. When a person like Rachel Berry comes along, someone talented, someone truly gifted, someone naturally beautiful, someone ambitious and confident and well-adjusted, when someone as effortlessly perfect as Rachel Berry comes along, a broken person's first instinct is to crush them. And so that was what Quinn had always aimed to do. Actually, her poor treatment of Rachel, someone had always, for the most part, been nothing but good to her, was one of the things that kept Quinn up at night. It was true; tears had been shed on Rachel's behalf. The same way Quinn cried for mistreating the random players in the fame-game that was her high school, she cried for purposely trying to destroy someone she actually knew, someone who, deep down, she really did admire.

But, she told herself, maybe that was just a part of life, too. At the very least, it was part of being a teenage girl. And so she put on a brave face, a very, very pretty face, and headed off to school to endure another day of moral suicide.

The first thing she did, the first thing she did every morning, in fact, was drop a couple bucks in the special education's donation jar. The wing of the school in which the special education classrooms were located were deserted at that time of day and so Quinn made it a habit of being charitable when no one could see her. Giving money to help aid the education of special needs students went against everything that the fake Quinn Fabray stood for. So she kept it quiet. Once her daily contribution was deposited, she fled the scene of the crime and looked for her friends.

Santana and Brittany were where they always were, leaning against the door to the girls locker room, discussing whatever piece of juicy gossip had been tossed their way by various passersby. The only difference on this day was that, along with Santana and Brittany, were many others. They seemed to be in a huddle. Cheerios, jocks, normal kids. They were bonding over something. Preparing for the worst, Quinn took a deep breath and went to complete the Unholy Trinity that was waiting patiently for her arrival.

"Hey girls," she greeted, only addressing her friends and not the crowd around them. Everyone seemed to look at each other, nervously, before looking to Quinn. Confused, Quinn scanned the faces of those around her. She looked back to her fellow cheerleaders, her partners in cruelty. "What?"

"Did you hear about Rachel?" Santana asked, her tone as cold as ever.

"No," said Quinn slowly, raising her chin slightly. "What about her?" Santana looked from face to face in the surrounding crowd, half-hoping that somebody else would step up and answer the blonde's question. When no brave soul dared to tackle such a task, she released an aggravated sigh and grabbed Quinn by the arm. She pulled her to the side, about a foot or so away from the mob.

"Rachel," she said, leaning close to avoid speaking too loudly, though Quinn wondered what good that did if the group behind them already knew whatever it was she was about to tell her. "Rachel has been having _dreams_ about you."


End file.
